Chloe In Prison Ch 03

Day Two

After the trials of the day I slept surprisingly well, despite the narrowness of the bed, and the fact that the prison blankets made my skin itch. I woke when the light came on – and for a few blissful moments forgot where I was. Then the stale air and the claustrophobic walls brought me down to earth again.

Suddenly there was a banging at the door.

"Slopping out in five minutes," a voice yelled. Then footsteps passed on and I heard a fainter banging, and the same voice calling further down the corridor.

"Best get up," said Rose, emerging from under her blankets. She swung her legs out of bed and sat up. It was the first time I had seen the top half of her naked, and I couldn't help staring at her huge breasts as they swung free. She saw me staring, and gave her left breast a smack, which sent it wobbling like an enormous jelly.

"Great cow's udders," she said. "What I wouldn't have given for nice little breasts like yours."

"I always wanted bigger boobs," I said. "More like yours."

"You try running for a bus with these," Rose said. "You'd soon change your mind."

Rose was barely dressed before the door clanged open, and Clark put her piggy face inside.

"Get your hands off your twats and take your bucket outside," she ordered.

"Good morning to you too Officer Clark," said Rose.

I flinched: after what had happened to me in the Examination Room I expected Clark to bawl Rose out for impudence at the very least, but she merely grunted and withdrew.

"Come on," said Rose: "I'll show you what to do."

Rose picked up the bucket and we left the cell. Outside in the corridor a line was forming: some women were standing in pairs, other women were emerging from cells with buckets swinging in their hands. I'd almost got used to being naked, but at the sight of all these women in uniform I felt vulnerable and self-conscious again. The moment I appeared there were wolf-whistles and cat-calls. Suddenly everybody was staring at me. Hands reached out to grope me as we walked to our place in the queue: I felt my bottom being pinched: then a pair of hands from behind me closed over my breasts.

"Get off me!" I cried. "Leave me alone."

"Hark at her, playing hard to get," said a voice somewhere.

"Little fanny-tease, getting us all on fire," said another.

"Come on girls, give her a break," said Rose. But the women took no notice: the line had broken up, and they were crowding round me, backing me up against the wall, groping for me like pack animals, whooping and leering – until suddenly a whistle blew.

"Get back in line!" a voice yelled.

Muttering and laughing the women gradually shuffled back to their places.

"See you later blondie," said one. "Keep your pussy warm for me," called another.

"Take no notice," said Rose. "They don't mean any harm."

It was easy for Rose to say that: all I wanted to do was to run back to my cell and lock myself inside. Instead I had to wait as the queue shuffled forward. Every time Clark called out a cell number, two girls turned into a room with their bucket, and a couple of minutes later reappeared.

At last our number was called. Rose took the bucket, and led me into a small, cell-like space. The concrete floor sloped down around a central hole – like the sort of lavatories they have on the Continent. Attached to the wall was a tap connected to a short length of hose. The stench was vile.

"We empty the bucket down there," said Rose, tipping the brown slop down the hole. "Then rinse it out from the tap – otherwise it stinks." She rinsed water into the bucket, swilled and emptied it a couple of times: then we were done, and moments later back at our cell, where I noticed the name LITTLEHAYES C had been chalked on the door beneath MASON R.

"That was horrible," I said, when the door was safely locked again. "They're like Harpies – I thought they were going to tear me apart."

"Slopping-out won't be a problem once you've got your uniform," said Rose. "It was the sight of you naked that got them going. But you're going to have to brace yourself for the showers."

"When is shower day?" I asked apprehensively.

"Couple of days to go," said Rose.

I lay down on my bed, worrying about what was to come. I could hear the last of the women tramping down the corridor. Rose too lay down, and immediately tugged off her knickers and started masturbating. That seemed to be her default position. However, she'd barely got into her stride before the door was flung open again: this time it was Dawes, with the tall Officer I'd briefly seen the day before.

"You: Littlehayes: stand up," ordered Dawes. I stood quickly to attention. Rose ignored the two women.

"You'll rub your clit away," said the tall woman.

"I'll start on yours then Officer Raymond," said Rose.

The tall woman sniggered; then, at a look from Dawes, composed herself.

Dawes produced a bag, and began throwing items onto my bed:

"One toothbrush," she said. "One cup. One comb. One towel. You get one safety razor a fortnight, one bar of soap a month and one tube of toothpaste every two months, so make them last. Towels are changed once a week. You get four tampons a month. When you've used them you put them in this paper bag, not in the slops bucket. Got that?"

"Yes Sir," I said.

"Make sure you keep your twat shaved. You'll be inspected every day, and if I'm not satisfied we'll have you in the Examination Room and do it for you – understand?"

"Yes Sir."

"Right: here are your prison clothes. Get them on now."

She tossed a bundle of clothes onto my bed. Grey socks, navy blue skirt, a white shirt, knickers and bra. The other woman dropped a pair of sandals onto the floor.

I picked up the navy bra. Even before trying it, I could see that it was miles too big. The cups were double D at least: surely it was meant for Rose?

"Did I say 'Now' or 'Next Week?'" demanded Dawes.

"Now, Sir." I said.

I put the bra over my breasts, then looked at Dawes and Raymond, waiting for one of them to say a mistake had been made, but neither spoke. Dawes' face bore the hint of that malicious grin I had seen in the Examination Room.

I reached behind me and fastened the bra: it flopped down beneath my breasts and hung limply. I put on the shirt: that, too, was several sizes too big, and hung on me like a cotton sack.

Then I picked up the knickers. They likewise were enormous. I put my legs through the holes and pulled them up: the waistband would barely stay round my hips, and the crotch sagged inches below my own. Even Rose would have had trouble keeping them on. Raymond pursed her lips, half-amused half-disapproving, and even Dawes broke into something like a grin.

To show that I was a good sport, and could take a joke at my own expense, I smiled too. The knickers slid off my hips and lodged half-way down my legs. I waited for one of the Officers to say something.

"Get on with it," said Dawes.

"I can't wear these Sir," I said, still smiling: "they're too big."

Instantly the smiles left the Officers' faces. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Rose.

"What did you say?" demanded Dawes.

"I – I said – I said they're too big – Sir," I stammered.

"What else did you say?"

"I – I said I can't wear them," I faltered.

"Take them off," snapped Dawes.

I took off the outsize clothes, and stood naked once more.

"Put them on the floor," said Dawes. "Skirt and jumper at the bottom, knickers and bra on top."

I did as she said, and made a small pyramid out of the clothes. Dawes began to unbuckle her leather belt. I was terrified: I was certain Dawes was going to beat me: it came as a complete surprise when, instead of hitting me, she took off first her skirt and then her knickers, and handed them to Raymond. She's deranged, I thought: dangerous and deranged. I stared at her great thick thighs in amazement as she squatted over the pile of clothes. Her black bush bristled like a blackthorn hedge. Then to my horror a squirt of yellow piss shot out onto the clothes. The squirt became a trickle, then the trickle became a flood: steam rose into the air, the clothes became soggy, then drenched in piss. Piss saturated the bra and knickers, soaked through into the shirt and skirt and socks. On and on it went, she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of piss. The stink of it filled the cell. Eventually the hissing died away, the stream dwindled, then ceased.

Dawes stood up, took her knickers and skirt and put them back on as though nothing remotely abnormal had just occurred.

"Now put them on," she said.

I stared in disbelief at the sodden pile. It resembled some animal that had been run over in the rain and left to die in a puddle. My heart quailed.

"I'm going to count to five," said Dawes. "One –"

I picked up the sodden bra: with the utmost reluctance I hung it over my breasts. I shuddered as the wet piss touched my flesh. Gooseflesh puckered my breasts. But I reached round and fastened the clasp. Then I put on the shirt: piss soaked onto my shoulders, and down the small of my back. My flesh shrank away as I fastened the buttons. I put on the pullover: it wasn't as soaked as the other clothes, but wasn't as large, either, and had the effect of clamping the piss-soaked shirt against my skin.

Then I took up the knickers, and very gingerly put my legs through the holes. I began to shake: every automatic response of my body rejected the contact. I forced myself to pull the knickers up, and hang the waste-band round my hips. The piss-sodden crotch hung lower than ever.

"Pull them right up," said Dawes.

Shaking, I pulled the hideous things until the soaking crotch made contact with my mound.

"Keep them like that," said Dawes.

The only way I could stop them from hanging down was to keep my legs wide apart, and stretch the elastic taut. Trying to keep this ungainly position I managed to put on the skirt, and finally the socks. The clammy feel of piss against the soles of my feet was almost the worst thing of all.

"Keep them on day and night until I tell you otherwise," said Dawes. "If I find you've taken them off you're in big trouble."

"Yes Sir," I said.

The two Officers left – leaving a wet patch on the floor. I stood there, completely at a loss. If you've never been forced to wear clothes soaked in somebody else's piss you just can't imagine what a horrible experience it is. I didn't know where to put myself. I wanted to lie down and cry, but the last thing I wanted was to get the bed soaked in piss. I wasn't even sure I dared sit down. But I couldn't stand up all day either. My body was urging me to tear off the stinking, piss-soaked clothes and pour clean water over me: but that was the one thing I was forbidden to do.

"Rose," I said: "what am I going to do?"

"There's nothing you can do," said Rose. "Wait for it to dry. God, it stinks in here – that bitch Dawes."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was so stupid. I didn't think."

"It's my fault," said Rose. "I should have warned you. Only, it was so long ago."

"What?" I asked: "they did this to you?"

"Sort of," said Rose. "Only not as bad. With me the clothes were too small. They gave me a tiny little bra, A cup or something, the sort a twelve-year-old buys. You've seen how big I am: this thing hardly covered my nipples, and squashed everything tight. But they made me wear it. As for the knickers – I couldn't get my thighs through the leg-holes. When I pulled them up tight the elastic came just below my fanny. But they made me wear them, even though I couldn't walk properly. You should have seen me trying to slop out with those things tight round my legs and all the other girls laughing. It didn't seem funny to me, I can tell you. But the difference is: I didn't refuse. So nobody pissed on the clothes."

"I'm so stupid," I said.

"You're not the first," said Rose. "And I'm sorry to have to tell you, but you may not have heard the last of this."

In the end I perched on the edge of the bed, almost sick with apprehension and disgust. I wanted desperately to get away from the smell: but the smell was me. All I could do was wash my hands and try to clamp a hand over my nose.

Day Two continued.

No clocks or watches were allowed in the cells, so I don't know how much time had passed before the door clanged open again.

"Breakfast at last," said Rose.

I cheered slightly at this. The smell of piss gave way to the smell of hot food as the trolley was wheeled in. A short fat Warden with spiky hair was pushing it, followed by Bradley. On the trolley stood two mugs of tea and two bowls. Both bowls contained porridge, but for some reason one was much larger than the other, more the size of a mixing bowl. Bradley put the two mugs on the shelf above the wash basin, and handed Rose the smaller bowl. She began to eat at once. Bradley addressed me:

"You the one didn't want to wear her prison uniform?" she asked.

"I thought it was too big Sir," I said.

"That's 'cause they're made for real women," said Bradley. "Not undersized little runts."

"Yes Sir," I said.

"Officer Dawes sends her compliments," said Bradley: "says you're to have something extra in your breakfast, help build you up."

"Thank you Sir," I said.

Both Wardens sniggered. Then Bradley put the bowl down on the floor, and I felt I'd slipped into some sort of insane time loop as, just like Dawes before her, she unbuckled her belt and took off her knickers and skirt.

"Officer Dawes says you're very partial to a drop of yellow juice," she said. Then she squatted over the bowl, opened her thighs, spread her fanny lips with her fingers and started to piss. I watched in horror as a stream of the foul liquid poured down onto the porridge, making little depressions in the surface, then covering it completely, the level rising until it had risen over half way up the bowl. Bradley then stood up, took out a handkerchief, wiped it over her stubbly mound, and dressed again.

Grinning, she picked up the bowl.

"Mmm now, does that smell good?" she asked.

"Mouth-watering," said the other Warden, leaning her face over for a sniff.

Slowly, enjoying the look of terror on my face, Bradley began to stir up the piss and porridge mixture with a spoon. Soon the liquid had been absorbed, leaving a soggy yellow mess.

"Well now Goldilocks," she said: "we're just gonna stay here and watch you eat this de-licious porridge. You make good and sure you eat it all up like a good girl."

She handed me the bowl and spoon. I looked at the stinking mess; I looked from one to another of their faces: then something in me rebelled. They could do what they liked to me: I'd just been forced to wear clothes soaked in piss: but no-one was going to make me drink another woman's piss.

"No," I said. "I won't."

"What you say?" said Bradley. Gone was the mocking tone: in its place was pure, naked hatred.

I quailed a little, but was determined to stick to my guns, when Rose spoke:

"You get that down you or I will make your life in here hell."

"What?" I gasped. "Rose?"

"You heard me," Rose said: then to Bradley: "she didn't mean anything – it was just her little joke."

Bradley looked uncertain, then turned to me:

"You've got five seconds to start eating Goldilocks."

I was too stunned by Rose's betrayal to fight. I dipped the spoon into the porridge, and just as Bradley reached 'four' I plunged it into my mouth.

It was the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted. I started to gag, almost spat it back into the bowl, but somehow, I don't know how, I managed to swallow it down.

"Oh God," I said, fighting not to sick it up again. I reached for the tea, but Bradley put her hand on my arm.

"Keep eating," she said.

So I plunged the spoon in again, and again forced to foul mess into my mouth. It tasted revolting, alien – certainly like nothing anyone should ever have to swallow. Even the worst medicines I had had to take as a child were more palatable than this. But I kept going. Spoonful after spoonful went down. Until at last the bowl was empty.

Bradley took it from me.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt this time," she said. "But you be very careful what you say in future. You understand me?"

"Yes Sir," I choked.

They put the empty bowls on the trolley. I downed the mug of tea: for a moment it eclipsed the other taste, but the taste of piss was so strong that it was soon corroding my mouth and throat again.

At the door Bradley stopped:

"What did you say you was studying at that University of yours?"

"History Sir," I said.

"History eh?" said Bradley. "Funny thing History. Time was, my ancestors were working as slaves for your ancestors, getting their asses whipped for working too slow. Now here you are drinking my piss. What do you make of that then?"

"I don't know Sir," I said.

"Beats me too," said Bradley. "Seems like one helluva crazy bitch, this History lady."

The second they were gone I began to gag. I dropped to my knees, whipped the lid of the bucket, and started to throw up. All the disgusting piss and porridge mix erupted out of me, until I was empty and drained, and only the appalling taste remained. I replaced the lid, drank a mouthful of water, then brushed my teeth with the new toothbrush and paste. Then, forgetting my piss-soaked clothes, I slumped onto the bed. Rose, that awful turncoat bitch, had her hands between her legs again.

"How could you?" I said, starting to cry. "I thought you were my friend."

"Chloe," said Rose sharply: "Stop that. I've just done you the biggest favour of your life."

"What, making me drink Bradley's piss?" I demanded.

"Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if I hadn't intervened?"

"No," I said: "but it could hardly have been worse than that. Can you imagine how I feel?"

"Let me tell you about a girl named Sandy," said Rose. "Inoffensive sort of girl she seemed, not the kind to make trouble. The only problem was, Sandy had a lactose intolerance. Well as you can imagine, they don't think much of food intolerances in here. 'Being awkward', they call it. So when Sandy wouldn't eat her milky porridge the Officers reported her. Next morning Dawes brought her breakfast, and told her since she wouldn't drink her milk she'd get something different. Then Dawes took off her knickers: and Sandy found herself with a bowlful of porridge and piss.

"Only, unlike you, she wouldn't eat it.

"So Dawes and Hardiman took her off to the Examination Room. Dawes took her knickers off again – you wonder why she bothers to wear any – and stuck a cardboard plate under her arse. And then, obliging woman that she is, she produced a great stinking turd. They sat Sandy at a table, gave her a plastic knife and fork – and told her she wouldn't get out of the room until she'd eaten it. She cried her eyes out, pleaded that she really was intolerant to milk, but it was no good. She tried to take a mouthful and immediately threw up. Dawes retrieved it and put it back on her plate. I don't know how long this went on for, I wasn't there, but eventually they put a wire clamp in her mouth to force it open, and started pushing pieces of turd inside. Every time Sandy was sick they'd start over again.

"I don't know how long it took, but eventually they got it all down. I do know that when Sandy showed up at slop-out next morning she'd aged ten years. Her face was haggard, and her hair had turned white."

"Rose," I said. "But that's awful, awful. Is she still here?"

"No," said Rose. "She went crazy and tried to kill herself. They had to send her to Broadmoor."

"I can't believe it," I said. "How can one human being do that to another human being?"

"That's not the only trick they've got up their sleeve," said Rose. "Have you ever been hogtied?"

"What's that?" I asked.